


Reading Lessons

by Beth Harker (chiana606), chiana606



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, death mention, dutchy is dyslexic, mention of cruelty to animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4030078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/pseuds/Beth%20Harker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/pseuds/chiana606
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Specs tries to teach Dutchy how to read, but it doesn't go well. Hurt/comfort, unrequited Specs/Dutchy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reading Lessons

_I'll teach you._

The morning started like any other, with Specs and Dutchy sitting shoulder to shoulder, papes in hand, flipping through the trash and monotony in search of a good headline. 

"What do you think of this one," Dutchy asked, pointing at random to a jumble of incoherent letters, with a nice clear picture of a fire truck underneath. He waited while Specs scanned the article. He made sure to stare at the page just as intently as his friend, like he as contemplating something instead of just killing time. 

"Well, I for one am glad that the firefighters got that kitten outta that house, but it ain't exactly groundbreaking news, is it?" 

"When's the last time anything groundbreaking happened? The headline writers, they're against us, I'm sure of it." 

Specs shoved himself against Dutchy, his grin irrepressible. "Extra, extra, headline writers conspire against rabble-rousing newsies, use bad headlines to starve them into good behavior." 

Dutchy shoved Specs back. "Extra, extra, rabble rousing newsies make up better headlines, continue to raise rabbles. So, did you hear about that house cat who was tried in a court of law, with four counts of arson and two counts of setting fires?" 

"Could always talk about the election," Racetrack suggested from somewhere behind. He puffed away at cigar, casual as could be. "Page seven. Looks like a tight race. There might be a rally. Ladies want to vote, and I say we should let 'em." 

"The cat wants to vote too," Dutchy joked.

"That's why she's setting fires," Specs agreed. 

Race just rolled his eyes. "Let me know how many papes you goofs sell."

That should have been it. It was a bright autumn day, the kind where the orange and yellow leaves raced around on every gust of wind, and the New York sky was every bit as blue and pretty as the sky in Holland, where Dutchy had started his life. It was the kind of day where he _could_ goof around, with a friend by his side and the promise of money in his pocket come dinner time. 

Unfortunately, the cat arsonist didn't prove to be much of a draw. They sold a couple of papes, and laughed at their joke, but a lot of the customers rolled their eyes, tired of street boys with their japes and their dishonesty. Comparing suffragettes to angry, fire-starting kittens got Dutchy chased down the street by a pretty girl with blue hair ribbons, who turned out to be one of them, and a very eloquent member of their cause at that.

At lunch, Specs asked him if he wanted to look at the election article. He said it with an apologetic little shrug, and without looking at Dutchy. 

"I'm more interested in cats than elections," Dutchy answered quickly. "Me? I'm a bonafide animal lover."

There was dangerous pause, while Specs sat down, shook out one of his papes, and opened it up to page seven. 

"There's some things even the likes of us gotta take serious, Dutch." 

"I'm only serious on rainy days, or when it's cold out. Get used to it." 

Specs shook his head, and took to reading the article. He really took his time about it. "What do you think about this bit," he asked at last. He pulled Dutchy over, and pointed to a sentence. 

Dutchy just stared at the page. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the page some more. "Elections don't concern me. I'm not from here, and... and... um, well, I'm not a girl so the suffragettes don't concern me either. It's boring. It's a boring paragraph and a boring article, because like we was saying this morning, the headline writers..." 

"I didn't ask you about the election, and I didn't ask you about the suffragettes. It's just one sentence, Dutchy. No long words. Try and look at it."

Dutchy's eyes wouldn't focus, not that it mattered. His shoulders slumped. 

"Okay," Specs said quietly. "Don't worry about it. We're pals. I can teach you."

"Maybe if I find time." There was a tightness in Dutchy's chest that didn't go away. Dutchy stood up, shouldering his papers. He'd just have to keep calling out headlines, somewhere away from Specs, maybe. 

Specs took hold of Dutchy's shoulder as he was standing. "I ain't going to tell anybody," he promised. "We can go up to the roof of the lodge after we sell these and..." 

Dutchy shook his head. He wasn't going to let Specs back him into a corner. "You don't gotta rub it in."

"What?" 

"That you're smarter than me. You don't gotta rub it in."

\---------

 _I'll teach you._. 

Specs really didn't have any idea how to let up. It took him a week before he could convince Dutchy to go up to the roof with him, or even talk to him beyond what was strictly necessary. When Dutchy finally did agree, it was only because he couldn't see any way out of it, and because selling papes alone by day and hanging around with Bumlets at night had left him just about ready to start pulling his hair out. Bumlets was nice, but only good for dancing, fencing, and (worst of all) serious discussion. 

It was silent on top of the lodging house. There was dirt up there, and flowerpots, but not even weeds were growing. Maybe the rooftop garden was some failed project of Kloppman's. Maybe the roof was the perfect place for failed projects.

Specs pulled Dutchy down to sit next to him on the floor. They were already messy and disheveled from working all day. The dusty ground didn't matter much. 

"I brought whiskey," Dutchy announced, extracting a half empty bottle from a paper bag. "I traded Swifty half a pack of cigarettes for it. The rest are here. You want one?"

"That what you usually do at schools in Holland?" Specs asked. Dutchy hadn't wasted any time. His mouth was already full of whiskey, which he had to make himself swallow before he could answer. It wasn't nice stuff. It tasted worse than it smelled, and brought an uncomfortable heat to Dutchy's face and belly.

"Huh?" Dutchy covered his mouth with his hand. He had to swallow several times just to keep the drink down inside him where it was supposed to be.

"Whiskey and cigarettes. It doesn't matter. You probably didn't go to school, right? I never did much neither."

Dutchy shrugged. "Tell me about your school. Did you like it much?" Maybe if Specs started telling Dutchy about his own schooling, they could drink disgusting whiskey and tell stories until it got too late to do what they'd come up here for. 

"It weren't bad." 

Specs also had a bag, but it wasn't full of stuff that was contraband at the lodging house. He opened it up. He stacked three thin blue books on top of each other, along with a pad of paper. 

"Please tell me you didn't spend money on these." 

"Only a couple of cents. I got the paper from Kloppman. He didn't ask no questions. Just told me not to draw any rude pictures." 

"I bet I can make a ruder picture than you can." Dutchy reached out for the paper, but Specs grabbed his hand. 

"We gotta get started before I gets too dark. I don't mind spending money on you, but I do mind wasting it. Let's get going. You know the alphabet?"

"Only the Dutch alphabet," Dutchy lied. "It ain't the same as English. We use a kind of picture writing where I'm from." This time he did manage to grab the paper from Specs. He looked at the sky, then drew a few puffy circles. "That means cloud. _Benevelen_."

"Right. This is a letter A. And this is a lower case a..." Specs scribbled out the letters while he spoke. 

"What's your favorite animal?" Dutchy asked. "I like cows. I could teach you the word for cow in three languages if..."

"Look here," Specs said. 

Dutchy winced. 

"This one's B."

\---------

It was slow going. By the time they reached Q, Dutchy's stomach was in a state of turmoil. So was his chest. His palms were sweating. He kept taking his glasses on and off, and wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt, as if that would make a difference. Specs wasn't stopping, and he wasn't even paying attention to Dutchy's attempts at conversation anymore. 

"R" came out sharper than the other letters had. Dutchy reached for his drink.

"Could you _stop_ that?" Specs half growled. Dutchy didn't blame him for getting frustrated. Everybody who'd ever tried to teach him anything had. "You aren't going to learn the letters if you can't see 'em, and you aren't gonna learn anything else if you don't learn the letters." 

"All the letters look the same," Dutchy complained, or at least tried to. The word 'same' stuck in his throat. 

"What? Blurry? It's because you're drunk and you can't even keep your glasses on." 

Dutchy shook his head. "I don't feel good," he told Specs, who sighed. 

"That's also 'cause you're drunk. And maybe 'cause you can't keep your glasses on. I always get a headache when I try and look at stuff without mine." 

Dutchy closed his eyes. Specs wasn't wrong about the headache. His glasses stayed in his hand. 

"You chose a fine time to take up drinking."

Dutchy didn't answer right away. He didn't open his eyes either. Specs took the bottle. His arm brushed against Dutchy's as he did it. Dutchy heard Specs open the bottle, then make a sound that was something between spitting and choking.

"If that ain't the worst thing I ever put in my mouth..." Specs muttered. He put the bottle down with a decisive clunk, far away from Dutchy. 

"You know," Specs spoke quietly, "I got a reason for doing this. I ain't doing it for nothing."

Dutchy licked his lips. He let go of his glasses, because he was going to break them otherwise. His hands hurt from how tightly he'd been clenching them. Specs leaned over to pick them up. He wiped at the dirt, then put them back on Dutchy's face. The gesture was too intimate. Dutchy wasn't a child. The heat that flooded through him was more akin to humiliation than the warmth that the whiskey had brought with it. Spec's fingers lingered near Dutchy's ear, until Dutchy shook him off. The glasses remained uneven, slightly askew on Dutchy's face.

"But I guess you don't even wanna learn," Specs finished. He kicked at the whiskey bottle. Luckily it was closed, but it still fell sideways into the ground. 

"I can't," Dutchy said. His breath was heavy and damp against his knees, his head spinning. "I'm too stupid." 

"That ain't true." 

"Yeah it is. The letters all look... they look the same, and B and D and P and Q is all one letter, but you call 'em differently and..."

"They're different. I can show you..." 

Dutchy shook his head. That's all it took to make Specs trail off into silence this time. 

"I lied about the picture writing," Dutchy admitted. 

"I figured. Forget about it."

"I can't."

"Fine. Then tell me about it."

Dutchy looked up at Specs. The sun was starting to set and their task wasn't finished, which was exactly what Specs had been afraid of. Dutchy took a few deep breaths. He took his glasses back off, and returned them to the ground. 

"My dad brought in three different tutors to teach me reading," Dutchy said to the mercifully blurry and wavering form of his friend. "I couldn't do it. I'm too stupid. He used to always ask me if I was lazy or stupid, and you know I ain't lazy so..." 

"I know you ain't stupid either," Specs scooted in closer. "You could be an astrophysicist if you wanted to." 

"I don't even know what that is."

"Neither do I, but you could be one." 

Dutchy frowned. "He said he'd murder my goat if I didn't learn."

"He shouldn't've done that. I didn't even know you had a goat. You oughtta tell me these things."

" _Kleine Geitje_ , and my mother said we could not kill her. We'd invested in her for making cheese. I used to always talk to her, so he cut away her ears." 

Specs put his arm around Dutchy's shoulder. 

"He cut away my goat's ears, so I couldn't teach her to talk French. That's what I always did with her. I know it was dumb and goats can't talk French, or any other language. They can only scream when you cut away their ears. He did it because I am stupid."

"He did it 'cause _he's_ stupid," Specs said firmly. "He dead yet?"

"Yeah. On the boat."

"Good." 

"Be careful how you talk about my father," Dutchy warned. 

"Alright." Specs sounded resigned. It was getting darker out by the minute. "Alright." Specs raked a hand through Dutchy's hair. Only Specs ever did stuff like that. "How old were you?"

"Seven." 

"Now I'm imagining you as a seven year old kid, walking around with your pet goat. I bet you was adorable, with them blue eyes of yours." 

Dutchy wrinkled his nose. Specs was still playing with his hair. He pushed a damp strand of it back behind Dutchy's ear, hand lingering on Dutchy's cheek. 

"Hey Specs? Why're you so weird?"

Dutchy didn't pull back like he usually did, but Specs let his hand fall. "Just thinking is all." Specs straightened. Dutchy could only just make out what he was doing, so put his glasses back on. Specs put his books and his notepad back in his bag, dusted himself off, and went to stand at the roof's edge, where the entire city stretched out before him. A few seconds later, Dutchy stumbled to his feet to follow him. He ran his hand through his hair, to get it back in the right place again. Maybe Dutchy's head was still funny from the drink, but New York didn't look like New York. There were too many colors. 

"People shouldn't hurt seven year old kids," Specs told Dutchy. "Or their goats. And I shouldn't've tried to make you do something you didn't wanna do." 

"It's alright." Dutchy leaned heavily on the railing of the roof, eyes cast downwards. 

"Don't worry about the reading. We can do it your way, when you want to. If you want to. It ain't that important."

Specs tapped his fingers against the railing. He didn't look at Dutchy, and Dutchy only looked at his hands. Slowly Specs pushed the bag with the books over the edge of the railing. Dutchy didn't hear it hit the ground, but something tight unclenched within him. 

"Lesson's over," Specs announced. "How was that for dramatic?" He pushed himself back away from the rail. "Let's go inside." 

Dutchy nodded. He rallied himself, and mustered up the energy for a smile. It was time to try and go back to normal. "Kloppman's going to kill you for losing his notepad," he said.


End file.
